


one of those days

by nobodysusername



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, brief cameo by jehan, i wrote some hurt/comfort because i can, mention of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-04 07:47:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1771306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobodysusername/pseuds/nobodysusername
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire's whole being aches like a bruise. (It's one of those days.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bunbunjolras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunbunjolras/gifts).



Grantaire’s whole being aches like a bruise; he’s tucked beneath thick blankets, curled on the couch with his face buried in the couch cushions. He can’t even _get up_.

It’s one of those days, and he wishes it wasn’t because he has an art exhibition tonight and he should be showering, or at least combing through the thick gnarls in his soot-dark hair but instead he’s lying on the couch, not even having the strength to force himself off of it.

Enjolras will be home soon, and what will he think? That Grantaire is infinitely lazy, that he’s incapable and incompetent. Thinking about that hurts, and his stomach churns with the thought of letting down the other man. The nerves make his hands shake, which reminds him of the commissions he could be completing instead of wasting time feeling like shit.

After what feels like an eternity, Grantaire works up the emotional motivation to roll off the couch, push himself up into a slouch, and shuffle to the bathroom.

He stares and stares at himself in the mirror; all he sees is the dark circles under his eyes and the pallid shade of his skin and the mess of his ruffled hair. All he sees is disappointment. Enjolras will see the same.

He wants to drink but he knows better, now, so instead he shucks off all his clothes and turns on the scalding water and steps into the shower, standing there and dripping soaked until his skin is red from burning under the hot rivulets and then he stumbles out, redresses in his sweatpants and t-shirt, and glares at himself in the mirror once again.

He hears the key twisting in the door, signaling Enjolras’ return, and knows he should be in their bedroom, dressing for the event.

“R?” Enjolras calls from the hall, where he’s no doubt slipping out of his overcoat and shoes, loosening his tie so he can let himself relax for a few minutes before they dash off to the showing. Grantaire stills, reluctantly lets himself out of the bathroom, and softly heads to the hall so he can kiss his lover in greeting.

“Are you alright?” Enjolras asks by way of response, once Grantaire has kissed his cheek and offered a wan smile his way.

Grantaire is so close to saying _yes_ , he’s _fine_ , it’s _all fine_ , but he can’t. His chest feels tight and his throat feels raw and all he can do is shake his head because _no_ , _not really_ , he’s honestly very _not_ alright.

Enjolras reads it in Grantaire’s expression before the brunet even shakes his head though, and he’s suddenly gathering R up into a warm embrace, raking long elegant fingers through damp obsidian hair, murmuring gentle reassurances into the shell of his ear.

“What’s wrong?” he murmurs gently, rubbing Grantaire’s shoulders with the soft touch that unfailingly obscures his sharp words (when he tears down an opponent in debate).

Grantaire can’t muster the strength to verbalize his disgust with himself, his pain, his misery, so Enjolras merely holds him more tightly, rocking both of them back and forth slightly as they stand in the kitchen in just their socks and clothes.

Eventually, Grantaire chokes out a shamed apology that Enjolras hushes with a gentle kiss.

“It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.” The words are repeated soothingly but they feel like lies to Grantaire.

Enjolras helps him dress for the event. (He stays close to Grantaire through the evening.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Enjolras never presses.)

Grantaire’s rather shaky through the end of the week, but Enjolras doesn’t press (he never does). On Friday, they have a quiet night in, watching indie movies until Grantaire falls asleep with his lover combing gently through the dark curls that obscure his embittered slumbering expression.

Enjolras waits until the credits start to roll before clicking off the television with the remote and carefully pulling Grantaire up into his arms, carrying the smaller man to their bedroom.

Jehan stops by the next morning with details on an upcoming art contest, quietly offering an explanation of details to Enjolras while Grantaire is still resting in the bedroom. Enjolras thanks his kind friend and invites him to breakfast, but Jehan merely shakes his head and offers the blond a sad smile.

Enjolras refuses to read into it, nodding his goodbye and doing his best to smile back with sincerity. Jehan doesn’t seem to believe the pathetically overdone grin, but pats Enjolras’ shoulder nonetheless as he steps back out the door, his soft floral shoes _scritch-scritch_ ing on the hall carpeting as he disappears down the fluorescently lit paisley corridor.

Grantaire has manifested in the kitchen when Enjolras returns to fetch his mug of coffee. “Good morning, love,” he greets as Grantaire yawns and rubs the sleep from his eyes. The dark circles painted under his eyes seem to have faded marginally, and his pallor seems to have vanished as well, for the time being.

“Morning,” Grantaire hums back, pouring coffee for himself and moving to join Enjolras at the table. They sit in leisurely silence for several moments, both sipping their coffee and waking up. Enjolras is looking over the contest information that Jehan had neatly scrawled out for him to pass on to Grantaire.

The quiet is broken when Grantaire quietly murmurs, “I’m sorry,” staring at his folded hands on the tabletop.

Enjolras struggles to keep the scowl from his face. “It’s not your fault, Grantaire,” he says, repeating what he’d said countlessly to soothe the anxious guilt of his boyfriend. “You’re diagnosed; you didn’t ask to feel as you do. _I’m_ sorry for being unable to make things better for you.”

Grantaire still refuses to meet Enjolras’ steady gaze, so he reaches out to take the brunet’s hands in his own across the table.

“Look at me, Grantaire,” he pleads. “I love you. I don’t want you to blame yourself for this. I know you didn’t choose any of this.”

Grantaire nods back, finally looking up. “I love you, too,” he answers. His voice is ragged, but earnest. Enjolras believes him wholeheartedly.

After a beat, he releases Grantaire’s hands and slides the contest information over to Grantaire. “Jehan dropped this off for you. It’s a visual arts contest. You could win a thousand dollars and be featured in a temporary modern art exhibit at the Metropolitan.”

The dark haired man takes the paper, reading over it curiously; Enjolras continues, more confident, as he does so. “I think you should enter _Permets-Tu_ … or perhaps something new?”

Grantaire flushes slightly. “I could never compete with the likes of those entering this competition,” he sighs resignedly. Enjolras scoffs.

“Bullshit,” he dismisses. “You are easily more talented than many of them. Please consider entering?”

For once, Grantaire does not dispute Enjolras’ request. He nods once, as if convincing himself. “I’ll consider,” he promises.

They finish their coffee in silence, then Grantaire stands to make scrambled eggs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i might continue this because i am trash but i also might not because i am still trash

**Author's Note:**

> tell me what you think in the comments maybe?


End file.
